Part 7

Eighty winters have turned him white, White of beard and of crown, Slackened his steps and dimmed his sight, Bent him and weighed him down, Not only with war, but with toils of peace, Toil of the pioneer’s life, Now at eighty he takes his ease, The fruit of his years is rife.

Proud he is of the things achieved, Glad for things as they are, Greater far than he once believed When new was his battle-scar; But he lives in the past, and speaks Often of bloody frays, Of roaring guns and shrapnel’s shrieks In dark Rebellion days.

Bull Run, Chancellorsville, but most Gettysburg’s three days fight, Pickett’s charge, and the thousands lost, Burying them in the night, These are subjects on which he dwells, For he himself was there. Younger he seems while he sits and tells, A smouldering fire seems flare.

Tales of war by a man who loves Peace and good will among men, Veterans pride without silken gloves, Calling the rebel his friend, Sighs he and says: “Oh, war is hell; Peace is the pearl of great price, Costlier far than mortal can tell, Nations who keep it are wise.”

Met him I did the other day, Reading a morning-sheet: “Blame on the Mexicans for the way Our Old Glory they treat, Tearing it down from our consulate, Trampling it in the mud, Flag of the free must it meet such a fate, Flag, bought with patriots’ blood!”

“Reading such things, I feel that I could Shoulder a musket still, Feel that my insulted country should ‘Rise in its strength with a will, Lifting Old Glory o’er Mexico, Ne’er to come down again, Patriots’ fire--has it ceased to glow?-- Look to your flag, young men!”

DIES IRAE

A cry arises from the blood-soaked earth, A cry of anguish, dying in despair, And with hell’s horrors is the world engirt, The prince of darkness ruleth in the air.

The gods are passing, and the kingdoms fall, And Cosmos trembles like an autumn leaf; What seemed the greatest sinks into the small, And what seemed glory changes into grief.

The jewelled crowns and diadems are cast Into the balance of the Only Just, They are like chaff, which scattered by the blast, Is lost, and mingles with the common dust.

The Dies Irae has arrived at last, The books are opened by the Lamb of God, The age of tyranny and greed is past, He breaks oppression with His iron-rod.

And truth imprisoned, justice quite forgot, Stand ‘for His judgment-seat in spotless white, The earth and heaven new shall be their lot, Upon the morn, now dawning from the night.

A MAY MORNING, 1917

From purple woods the stock-dove’s notes are flowing, As deep and melancholy as the night, Whose shadows from the early morning’s glowing Now take their flight; So sweetly clear, and gently wooing, They bring my soul an exquisite delight.

A byre-cock’s crow comes shrilly from afar, And wakes loud answers in the neighbor’s yard, They greet the coming of Apollo’s car, Like many a modern and accepted bard; But to the woodland notes compared they are So challenging, and hard.

The farmer rises wearily from bed, Looks on the morn, and smiles that it is fair, For he must toil that others may be fed, And Providence has placed on him its care, While others fight, and mingle with the dead, To nourish hope and life becomes his share.

But who has eyes and ears for nature’s ways? Who goes to matin at the stock-doves call? When man his brother man so foully slays, And nations into utter ruin fall; Must war obscure the morning’s rosy rays, And keep a May-dawn’s music from the soul?

A time like this demands the bread and meat, But also music for the famished heart; And we should rise the better things to greet, Be they in nature, or in perfect art, Lest struggling man at last must fall beneath The load in which now all men have a part.

MY SAILOR-LAD’S LETTER

In the city of tents, by the restless sea, My sailor-lad long has dwelt, Since Fate has put forth her dark decree, And strangely our children’s future is spelt, By the horrors of things to be.

And I think, in his heart he begins to know The meaning which glamor obscured, For his words are like cups that overflow With things which he has endured, Though never just saying so.

For he is as brave, and more I ween, Than many a fellow-lad, And courage excels in his cheerful mien, He even tries to make others glad, This sailor of seventeen.

But a letter arrived, the other day, To his little sister of seven, To whom he wrote in a childlike way Of things in a vision given, And this is what he did say:--

“I stood on the shore of the moonlit lake, Where the billows came rolling high, The sound of the sea did my soul awake To the breaker’s music and westwinds sigh And to musings of my own make.”

“Methought I saw on the whitecapped waves My dear ones come to me,-- For the heart perceives what most it craves, On the world’s dark, turbulent sea, The sea of clamoring waves.”

“And I saw you dance on the foamy crest, Like a Naiad or spirit fair, And mother and all whom I love best Did beckon to me out there, In the wind from the plains of the west.”

“And I called on you all by your dearest name, As lonely I stood that night, But none of you heard me, and none of you came, But vanished full soon from my sight, Like the sheen of a dying flame.”

“And it may have been the mist from the spray, Or something like that which blurred My eyes as I tried to look away, And only the moan of the billows I heard, As they came in a wild array.”

“I went to my little tent in the camp, All cold in the April night, My bed was cheerless and chill and damp, And my heart was heavy as I did write, In the light of the sky’s bright lamp.”

THE BUGLE CALL

America, awake, awake! Put on thy armor, for the hour Has come when Freedom is at stake! Arise, and show thy spirit’s power, And now, as in thy youth, The tyrant’s shackles break; And let the truth, Which made thee great, Decide the destiny of mankind Ere ’tis too late!

To thee the world is looking for salvation; Thou hast it. Give it in God’s name! And it will make thee tenfold more a nation-- Withhold it, and on thee shall be the blame Of ages--and the shame.

This is the testing-time, Which like a fire brings forth The people’s real worth; For men from every clime Is now this testing-time, But we shall joy to see, The gold of love is there, For home and Liberty, And Loyalty shall be Their watchword everywhere.

Awake, America, awake! The bugle-call to arms is sounding, Thy sons are hearing it and shake Old Glory to the winds, with faith abounding, And ’neath this emblem of the free A sacred pledge they make, That it shall be Unharmed by any foe, And aid the world in despots’ overthrow.

They come--these lads from country-home and town, From crowded cities and the lonely plains, They come in blouses blue and khaki brown, They come by thousands on the speeding trains, To meet the hardships and the pains.

Still, thou, America, art half asleep, Entranced by pleasant ease, Thou dreamest yet of peace, For it seems far across the deep, Where death and grave a harvest reap-- It seems so far away The nations’ judgment day, But, like nocturnal thief, It may bring thee to grief,-- Therefore obey the bugle-call to fight, Arise, put on thy armor, show thy might!

July, 1917

FLAG-RAISING

No longer as an ornament, Adoring festive places, The flag is to the masthead sent, Before uplifted faces,-- No longer as a children’s play We fling it to the breezes, With thoughtless praise on gala-days, When each acts as he pleases.

But like a sacramental act Its raising is attended, When loyal hearts behold a pact In colors sweetly blended,-- When men, responsive to its call, Make grim determination, That tyranny at last must fall Before a freeborn nation.

And as it waves above their heads, ’Tis like a benediction Which sacredness and glory sheds On men of just conscription,-- They stand aloof, they seem apart, Like heroes consecrated, So true and brave, so strong of heart To freedom dedicated. October, 1917

THE RED CROSS

(_In hoc signo vinces._)

O, crimson cross of Calvary! O, heavenly sign of Constantine! O, mercy-emblem of the free, The victory must still be thine! Thou paradox of horrid war Shalt stand unscathed when it is o’er!

Was by this sign the pagan host On Tiber’s banks subdued at last, Without the reck’ning of the cost, And all the suff’ring of the past, How much less now should money be The measure of its victory!

A holy emblem of the hearts Which love and weep, and gladly give, That each true soldier who departs May mid the conflict hope to live, For when he does the cross behold, It cheers his soul and makes him bold.

Ah, let it go where’er he goes, With all its kindly ministries! Through this from million hearts there flows A stream of warmest sympathies; And must he give his all, even then, It is to him his last true friend.

Speed on, Red Cross, thou heaven-sent, Into the lands of pain and woe, Until their madness shall be spent, And thou shalt stand amid the glow Of that new dawn of Brotherhood, A symbol of man’s highest good!

THE DOLEFUL MOTHER OF MANKIND

“Rest, rest, perturbed Earth! O, rest, thou doleful mother of mankind!” Wordsworth

I have not seen thy beauty for the pall Of horror, hanging over all the world, I have not heard thy music for the din Of battle-lines against each other hurled.

And now thy face is covered with a shroud Of purest white, and thou wilt take thy rest; The winds will sing their evening lullabies, With memories of love and feathered nest.

And mothers, at the dusk, will list thereto, And think of croonings in the years gone by, When little boys sat by the window-panes, And gazed with wonder on the moonlit sky.

And now, perchance, they lie beneath thy shroud, Or destined soon to join the sleeping host,-- War’s sacrifice, O God, how man doth sin! How in the utter darkness he seems lost!

How far from nature has he erred and strayed, A prey to greed, and arrogance of kings! Shall he at last, a prodigal, return To dwell in peace ’neath the “Almighty’s wings?”

The doleful mother of mankind doth wait, And when her children come, anew she dons Her spring-attire, and smiles forgivingly, And breathes her peace upon her weary sons.

And then again I’ll feel the throb of joy, And glory in the wonders of thy face, Yea, revel in thy thousand harmonies, And wander satisfied along thy ways.

MIDWINTER’S DREAM

(1918)

Full tired of war and worry do I turn To nature in her sweet midwinter dreams, To purple twilights, when the day’s last beams Like flick’ring candles on the snowdrifts burn, While star and crescent, in the deepest blue, Shed peace on fields and woods and frozen lakes; And from the creeping shadows soon awakes Life’s fairy-world, the one as boy I knew In unfeigned joy that varied with each scene Of winter’s whiteness, or midsummer’s green.

The dormant earth dreams of the life to be, When spring returns to call it from the grave, When through its breast shall rush the ardent wave Of love and hope, and songs of ecstasy;-- But in the moonlight and the shadows dun The dreams appear in emblems vague and frore, Like wandering spectres from a mystic shore Which track the glory of the setting sun Like love, that plays behind a rosy screen, Because ’tis yet too modest to be seen.

The winter heavy hangs on humankind-- In homes, and camps, and on the stormy seas, On Europe’s battlefields, whose miseries Appall with horrors every normal mind; Its million graves, decked with the covering Of jewelled purity, where heroes sleep, At whose low crosses countless hearts must weep,-- Is holy ground, where life shall take its wing To truer freedom and a larger love, With peace on earth and good will from above.

Our country’s dream: that when the southwind’s breath Shall wake to life and gladness all the land, Like risen pow’r our chosen youth shall stand Around the flag which means the tyrant’s death,-- That like the life which quickens everything, Our hosts from South and North and East and West Shall fare rejoicing o’er the ocean’s crest, And Freedom’s victory to Europe bring,-- Midwinter’s dream in every loyal heart, Who dreams it not, in Freedom has no part.

BY THE WAYSIDE

THE CANADIAN PRAIRIES

Two hundred long miles and never a tree, O, nothing but plains all scorched by the sun! The buffalo’s trails one freely may see, Which over the billowing ridges run, And here the Indian hunted at will, And slaughtered and wasted the bison wild, The heaps of its bleached bones bear witness still How wanton was he, the prairie’s child.

Yes, here is a wildness which bids my soul To saddle my pony and ride away, And follow its weird and mysterious call To freedom complete, if just for a day, To follow the paths where the bison did roam, To list to the coyotes and prairie-dog’s bark, But thankful at night for the lone settler’s home And a gleam of his light in the dark.

THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS

Majesty, power, and dominion and glory, Be unto Thee who these wonders hast wrought, Mountain peaks lofty, all snow-capped and hoary, Thou alone knowest their wonderful story, When from the bowels of the earth they were brought.

Strangest formations and glaciers beaming, Cataracts rushing from dizziest heights, Emerald rivers with great swiftness streaming, Crystal-clear rivulets rushing and gleaming, Ne’er did I witness more glorious sights.

Down in the valley the flowers are growing, Trees too, yea, forests are flourishing there, Sweetly their fragrance on cool breezes flowing, Terrible grandeur is meek beauty wooing, Happy the love-pact, the harmony rare.

Thus is the image of God here reflected, Mighty sublimity, lowliness sweet, Happy the pilgrim who this has detected, Travel-worn be he, yet never dejected, Since he, O, Father, may sit at Thy feet.

MOUNT SHASTA

When from the fiery pangs of earth this queen Of mountains was brought forth, the spirits of The air desired to dress her in the sheen And glory of their pure celestial love; They gave her for a veil the fleecy cloud, Which gently floats about her lofty brow; They gave her for a mantle to enshroud Her shoulders strong the ever glittering snow; And then they called upon the fir and pine To weave a robe of never fading green, And with the silver stream their wool entwine, That here and there its bright gleam might be seen; She thus adorned has stood for eons long, The queen among the mountains of the west, In beauty cloth, inspiring men to song, And lifting human thoughts to what is best.

VERSES

Written while sailing from Vancouver to Seattle.

I’ve seen the forest and mountains, I’ve seen the far stretching plain, But oh for a whiff of the briny sea, And a journey across the main!

Oh, then does my soul find its pleasure, Akin to my childhood joy, For my home was close to the seashore, And I lived with the fjord as a boy.

Its unbounded freedom and greatness Created a love in my soul, And never I sail o’er the surging sea, But liberty’s voice does me call.

Its mystery, aye, and its music Have followed me all the way, And borne--as they are--by the foaming wave, They blend in an unsung lay.

And all day long do I listen, And all day long do I look To freedom which never was nation’s, To songs that were never in book.

TO AN UNKNOWN MUSICIAN

(Verses written while listening to a melody played on board the “Princess Charlotte,” sailing through the strait of Juan de Fuca)

What is nature’s charms and grandeur, When compared to what man is, In his sorrows and his longings, In his triumphs and his bliss! Oh, a soul that hath such feelings, As the one who now doth play, Such a depth of true emotions, Lives in God’s eternal day!

Thou unconsciously hast moved me, I’m a captive at thy will, Though in thousand leagues of journey Oft my soul has had its fill Of the beauty of creation, Known its raptures and delight, Yet not once such inspiration Has possessed me as tonight.

Play, play on thou sweet musician, While the darkness gathers round, While our ship is speeding onward With a rhythmic, rushing sound, While the stars look down upon us, Mirrored in the tranquil sea, Render thy interpretation Of life’s joy and misery.

SEATTLE

(A meditation)

Thou princess of the sea, how thou hast grown, Since last I saw thee, and how beautiful! The ocean-breezes must to thee have blown The ardent health which nothing wrong could dull, The blood of races mingle in thy veins, The spirit of two worlds have met in thee, Most genial and free thou here dost reign, A charming princess of the western sea.

It was with thee I did a year abide, A year so antithetically mixed, When painful doubts forbade me to confide, And life’s career, confessed, still was unfixed; May be it was thy spirit, which I felt, That gave me song and Oriental dreams, And when in Occidental shrines I knelt, Of Oriental truth there came bright gleams.

And hath not doubts been harassing my soul, And had I shunned to give a heed to fears, But followed--like thyself--the Spirit’s call, How different had been the lapsing years; Perhaps I then with glory now could meet The growth and life, I see on every hand, But now I sit in sorrow at thy feet, And find my name was written in the sand.

GJOA

Capt. Amundsen’s Ship in San Francisco

Within the sound of the Pacific’s roar Stands Gjoa amid palms and myrtle trees, Her prow is lifted toward the rocky shore, As if impatient for the stormy seas, The sturdy little ship of Arctic fame, Which bears from storms and ice full many a mark, Now like a lion in a cage, grown tame, Stands here--a relic only--in a park.

A precious relic to Norwegian hearts, With pride and gratitude they look on thee; Proud that thou sailed, where man had made no charts, The first explorer of a strait and sea, And grateful that the land of Vikings still Has sons of courage and adventure bold; For Roald Amundsen forever will Remain a man of true heroic mold.

And thou art here incaged to sniff the brine, Forsaken by the captain and his crew, A monument the great throngs to remind, What talent mixed with manliness can do, And that a nation may be small, yet great, Be poor and still excel in noblest ken, A silent witness at the Golden Gate; A nation’s glory is her greatest men.

THE GRAVE IN THE DESERT

Amid the plains of yellow sand and cactus, Encircled by the distant barren hills, Amid the awful desert of Nevada, Beneath the glaring sun which burns and kills, There is a lonely grave, where the San Padro Fast speeds from palm-groves of Los Angeles, A lonely grave just by the road-side, Which kindly hands unselfishly did bless.

A wooden cross is standing at its head, On which no name nor date they did inscribe, Still, half in ruin, it stands there to bless An unknown sleeper of the wandering tribe. And at the foot the symbol of his life, No fitter epitaph on any grave-- For man is but a restless sojourner, So there they placed the pilgrim’s handworn stave.

Who was he? None can tell, some say a tramp, Who stole a ride and crushed was ’neath the wheels; But tramps are also men, and sometimes more Of worth than their unhappy plight reveals; But this I know: He was a mother’s son, Who still may wonder how her boy does fare, Who still, perchance, is praying for this one, The chiefest object of her loving care.

May be some other hearts are looking for His coming home, though after many years, Who think of him as he was in his youth, And seldom speak his name, except with tears, Who know not of this solitary grave, Where death and weird oblivion do reign, Where all seems hopeless, save the crumbling cross, Which shall at last life’s mystery explain.

THE MOUNTAINS OF THE PROPHET

In the purple of the morning, Through the dreamy haze of day spring, Did the mountain-tops ’round Salt Lake Loom before us, as the desert We were leaving far behind us. “Lofty mountains of the prophet,” Did I mutter without thinking, Came the words, as if repeated After some one who knew better, After one whose inspiration Was from truth and heavenly wisdom; And instinctively I pondered That the prophet’s eyes had often Lifted been to these blue mountains, Whence his help should come, and glory Of the Lord appear to Zion, And ’mongst which the trail was winding, Bloody trail of weary pilgrims, Seeking an abiding city, Guarded by their rugged fastness, And the wide expanse of Salt Lake.

Here, where seemed but barren desert, Did the prophet’s eye see visions Of a city and a temple, Where the saints should dwell in saf’ty, Where in peace they God might worship; And this vision, now made real, Lends a lustre to the mountains, Gives a romance to their valleys; And whate’er their names may be, I Call them mountains of the prophet.

CHICAGO

O, wonder of our age! Consummate wonder, not of state alone, but of our land, Unique among the cities dost thou stand Upon the page Of history, in youth and might! Thou didst spring forth as in a night, From where the redman roved Along the dreamy shores of Michigan, Where four-score years ago Thy life began; Some fairy moved Her wand upon thee, For like a fabled urban didst thou grow.

Colossal mart, Of commerce, like the heart Thou sendest out through arteries and veins Pulsating life into the world; Napoleons of business-brains Are marshalling their forces, With colors high unfurled, Not on war-harnessed horses, To madly fight, To kill and blight, But to employ each pow’r To make thee stronger, better every newborn hour. Thy mighty citadels of stone, So huge, so tall, So many and immense, That with their burden mother earth seems groan, Throb with a life intense, And from thy canyons, we call streets, Great traffic’s constant roar us meets. Great is thy wealth, Great is thy woe, Less great thy health, But great is its foe; Within thy pale the great extremes Of good and evil dwell: Felicities of heavenly dreams, And hopelessness of hell: Above thy scum of things The voice of heaven sings.

July, 1915

THE ISLE OF DREAMS